


Fantasies

by fauxpocky (alisso)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-10
Updated: 2006-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:13:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisso/pseuds/fauxpocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has "issues" with fantasies. For various reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasies

Fantasies had always been a bit of a problem, until now.

It wasn't that James lacked the imagination necessary to concoct a suitably arousing scenario. It was just that fantasies were always, understandably, unfulfilling. His mind could create all sorts of arrangements of nubile young bodies, mouths and hands, but there was never any escaping the bare prosaic facts. No disguising that the hand on his cock was his own, nor pretending that the fingers that teased his nipples were the feminine fingers of, say, Julie, or one of the nurses.

Not to mention the distracting sense that his hands were caressing an unmistakably male body, something that always threw him off, made fantasies as insubstantial and as useless as wishes. Try as he might, there'd never been more to his masturbation than pure physical relief.

Until Greg.

Until the hands that he wanted to feel running across his body belonged to someone as male as he was, till the body he wanted to touch was as flat-chested, solidly muscular and hairy, as angular and rough as his own. Like, but unlike, familiar, yet different.

Suddenly, fantasies took on a new element. Now they were a different kind of problem. They started to take over.

As he washed his body in the shower, the sensation of his own skin under his fingers, slippery with the soap, called up memories of the morning after their first night together. Still uncertain, still unsure, he'd lingered by the door of the shower till Greg had cursed him for letting cold air in, and dragged him in and under the spray with him.

It had all been so new, so strange and exciting, pressed close in the cramped cubicle, which wasn't built for two, he'd been awkward still till Greg found the soap, and then all had been smooth, slick skin sliding under the spray, steam in the air and sweat that went unnoticed, until his tongue had tasted salt on Greg's shoulder.

The memories came back at less appropriate moments, too. Nothing wrong with taking a little longer in the shower than strictly necessary, but that wasn't the half of it. His hands lingered on his skin as he dressed, and he couldn't even run his fingers through his hair now without feeling his scalp prickle, and a shiver trail down his spine.

And then there were the spontaneous memories. Oh, those memories! They assailed him unexpectedly, inappropriately, filling his mind with illicit images and flooding his body with heat. They struck as he talked to patients, as he worked with colleagues, as he sat alone, working through the administrivia that came with the job. They urged him to stop whatever he happened to be doing, and seek out Greg, and get to work creating more memories.

And some of the fantasies that invaded his brain were _vivid_. Had he really only imagined Greg sitting on the floor under his desk, his hands working their way up his legs, while he'd tried to keep a straight face as he talked to Cuddy? It would have been just like Greg to mouth at the cloth-covered bulge of his erection while he listened to Cuddy's latest lecture about "not encouraging Dr House in his juvenile behaviour", but he was pretty sure it had all been in his mind.

After all, if Greg had really done _that_ , he would have gloated about it till the end of time, and so far his gloating had been restricted to other topics. Like the time he'd successfully seduced him into secretive sex in a supply closet.

After that, he'd put his foot down about inappropriate behaviour at work. Bad enough that he was fantasising about Greg all the time, but he couldn't look at the nurses' carts without getting half-hard now, after having been bent over one in a darkened supply room, with Greg behind him whispering indecent things to him as he _did_ indecent things to him.

There'd been an odd scratch mark on the surface of the cart, right in front of his eyes. He kept finding himself staring at every one he saw, wondering if that was the one with the scratch, if that was the one he'd come all over.

Fortunately, everyone seemed to assume it was the nurses pushing the carts he was staring at. Everyone except Greg, that is, who smirked when he caught him out, and teased him mercilessly about it later, trying to convince him to lift his ban on sex in the workplace.

He refused to concede that Greg had won, that one time in the men's room. After all, blow jobs weren't sex. And sure, he'd been the one on his knees, but Greg had been the powerless one.

The blurring of fantasy with reality had produced _some_ benefits, of course.

They hadn't been together long when he'd been sent across the country to an oncology conference. Naturally, Greg had been left behind - he could get away with a lot of unorthodox behaviour, but he had no place at an oncology conference. He'd been left with the clinic, his fellows, and a patient exhibiting an odd collection of respiratory symptoms.

James had called home that night, from his hotel room - idly wondering at the thought that Greg's apartment was already "home" after so little time - and listened to Greg rant about moronic patients, lies, and the inability of his fellows to just accept when he was right and get on with the treatment.

He'd smiled to himself as he lay on the scratchy hotel blankets, listening to the familiar sounds of Greg winding down after a long day. An exasperated sigh in his ear, even without the usually accompanying gust of warm breath, had lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. If he'd been at home now, as Greg got to this point in his ranting, he would have stepped forward and slid his arms around Greg's waist and laid his head on his shoulder, and Greg always sighed, just like that, when he did. Exasperated, as always, that James could derail his ranting with such a little gesture. So hearing the sigh had made him long even more to be home, and able to use his usual methods of taking Greg's mind off work. If only temporarily, since work was never far from Greg's thoughts.

"Miss you."

Greg had breathed the words so quietly that he'd hardly heard them, but he'd understood. For all that their newfound relationship was still focussed heavily on the sexual side of things, they both recognised that it was symbolic of the way their emotional relationship had deepened. They'd always been close, getting physical had just been the final step, the last piece of the puzzle that was Greg-and-James. That had always _been_ Greg-and-James. This final step had simply made them whole.

He'd sighed softly down the phone line, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with his unoccupied hand.

"I miss you too. I'll be home tomorrow night, and you can go back to ranting at me in person again."

"You know you love it," and they were past the moment of sentimentality as suddenly as they'd gotten to it.

It had puzzled him before then, but he'd been struck again by the strangeness of their flirting. Snarkiness and teasing really _shouldn't_ be so sexy. But they always had been, and, as Greg continued to gently but relentlessly torment him, he'd listened to the breathy voice in his ear and taken a great deal of pleasure from knowing that he was _allowed_ to find it sexy now.

He'd loosened his tie with his free hand, and slid it off, dropping it on the bed. He'd undone a few buttons and, after responding to a particularly wicked comment, thought again, and undid them all. As he lay there, teasing, being teased, trading insults with practiced ease, _flirting_ , with _Greg_ , he'd let his fingers trail idly across his chest.

It was a perverse pleasure, he knew, getting turned on by his best friend and lover's rudeness, his sarcastic, biting wit, so why not, he thought, indulge in another perversity at the same time. _So_ very wrong, but he couldn't help himself. His fingers were walking down towards his belt when Greg had interrupted the smooth flow of their banter.

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?"

He'd blushed, though there was no one there to see him, and he could easily lie.

"What would you think I'd be doing?"

"You are, I know that guilty tone of voice," and Greg's voice had taken on a new tone too, it was deeper, huskier, laden with triumph at being right, sheer mischief and a familiar note of arousal, "But you can't have gotten very far yet, you haven't had time." Now he sounded thoughtful, considering.

"I can't imagine what you're talking about." It had been a pitiful attempt at denial, and Greg ignored it accordingly.

"Got your hand in your pants yet, doctor?"

The memory of the sound of Greg's voice at that moment still sent little jabs of pleasure all through his body, right down to his toes. He couldn't have not answered him, or held anything back from that point on. And he hadn't.

"N-no, not yet. I've taken off my tie and undone my shirt."

"Are you hard?"

"A little."

"Good. Don't want you getting too far ahead of me."

He'd heard noises in the background and figured Greg must have moved into the bedroom. The soft noises that followed, he assumed, were Greg taking off his shirt, and catching up.

"What about you?"

"Getting there."

"Are you..." the breath caught in his throat at the mental image of Greg stroking himself, and he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Ohhh yeah." Out on one long breath, and he felt a shiver course through his whole body.

"Wish I was there."

"To watch? Why Jimmy, I never had you pegged as a voyeur."

"To help."

He'd heard Greg gasp, and felt a moment of smugness, but only a moment.

"Oh, but you _can_ help. Close your eyes, and no peeking."

"Cause you'll know."

"I always know. Close your eyes and touch yourself. Pretend it's me."

He'd gasped, eyes fluttering closed instantly, and fumbled one-handed with his belt.

"Pretend I'm touching you, or pretend it's you touching me?"

"Both. Do as I tell you, and tell me how it feels."

"And you'll do the same things to yourself?"

"Of course, that's how this works. You just have to do what I tell you."

His voice had been gently coaxing at this point, urging him to play along, but once he started giving commands, it changed, became aggressive, demanding.

And James had shut his eyes, and acceded to every order, every demand.

With his eyes closed, and his imagination running wild, he wasn't lying alone on a hotel bed, he was at home, with Greg. And the hands on his body weren't his own, and the body he was touching was Greg's.

His face burned as Greg made him confess everything he felt, every sensation at that assailed him, every desire that filled him. Even the blush that stained his cheeks as he whispered hoarse words across a thousand miles of phone line.

He imagined how this would be if they were together, saw it all in his mind. Greg's hands on him, his own hands mirroring every move in return, both of them gasping together when Greg's hand finally slipped into his pants, and his own hand returned the favour. He even confessed to that image, babbling more as Greg increased the pace of their actions.

He would have confessed to anything, in the final moments. Knowing he was close, Greg made him back off, an order that was hard to obey, but impossible to refuse. God knows why, he'd thought about it a _lot_ since that night, and not just for the memories, but he still hadn't worked it out. Why, even as he'd wavered on the edge of orgasm, he'd bitten his lip, panting, and done what he was told. He'd waited, because Greg told him to.

And he'd begged. That still made him squirm, the way the words had spilled from his lips, how he'd pleaded for permission. It wasn't as though Greg could have stopped him if he'd done it. But he'd still begged.

He wasn't convinced that his begging had been the reason Greg relented. Greg enjoyed his begging too much - although that was probably part of the real reason. Power plays had always been Greg's idea of fun, it shouldn't surprise him to realise that would extend to this.

In the end, though, it must have been too much even for him, and with a strange, strangled noise, he'd practically ordered him to orgasm.

He hadn't wanted to hang up the phone, afterwards. He'd wanted to fall asleep listening to Greg breathe, but he didn't say so. It was far too sappy an idea to mention. Besides, it would have left him with an absolutely ridiculous phone bill. So once again, fantasy had come to his aid.

He'd fallen asleep imagining that Greg lay beside him, that he could hear him breathing, slow and steady. He hadn't even really needed to imagine it, he just had to remember the sound that routinely lulled him to sleep these days.

So maybe fantasies had their place. They could be useful, now and then. Just, not at work. Or the supermarket. Or while he was doing his taxes.

And besides, he infinitely preferred the real thing. Fantasies never kissed as well as Greg did, for one thing. And while every imagined Greg would whisper "I love you", it didn't mean a thing. It was when the real Greg really smiled at him, for no reason other than being happy to see him, just to have him there, that he knew this was real. That he was really loved.

Fantasies really couldn't compete with that.


End file.
